


Friends, Lovers Or Nothing

by aurics



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, M/M, Post-Break Up, Purple Prose, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 08:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4558344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurics/pseuds/aurics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a bad break-up, Arthur decides to reclaim his belongings from their once shared home. He expects the meeting to be tense and brief, with conversations made only out of necessity. Of course, this isn't the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friends, Lovers Or Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta-ed as usual, was initially supposed to be purple prose-y but 1) I've lost my ability to write pp 2) I can't stand an excess of it anymore lmao. So here have some USUK angst [sparkle sparkle]

Arthur has to applaud the baked beans he’s eaten for snapping what thin thread of patience is left in him, even before the last traces of early morning has been stripped away. Although faint, the stain on the left cuff of his favourite white dress shirt is still an eyesore and consequently irks Arthur like mad, yet Arthur reassures himself that his irritation is justified — he simply _has_ to maintain a semblance of dignity in front of his ex-boyfriend, pretend that he’s been nothing but jubilant since their break-up, has been residing on cloud nine ever since then without any signs of coming down. Carefree smile, effortless hair, a full wallet in his right pocket, which is absent of any damp tissues or sleeping pills from the chaos of his nights. The ideal picture of a collected, composed single man. He repeats this like a mantra until his words become trite as he desperately tries to wash out the light-brown colour off of the pristine white.

 

In the end he gives up, and decides to wear the dress shirt as it is.

 

 

-

 

 

While he stands there waiting for Alfred to open the door (it’ll probably take another two or two-and-a-half minutes, give or take. Of course, this is all conjecture and certainly not Arthur speaking from experience), he wonders when they last spoke to each other without any malicious intent. What they had between each other two months and five days ago sounds more like a faraway fairytale more than anything now; out of reach and too good to be true. Two months and five days ago was a time when post-work phone calls didn't end as shouting matches; when prolonged visits to each other’s workplaces were as electrifying to them as star-crossed lovers' trysts; or when Arthur’s disparage towards Alfred’s awful spelling was doting, and not vindictive jabs at something that runs far deeper and more personal than simple grammar. 

 

When Arthur can turn up at Alfred’s doorstep without feeling like he's succumbing to defeat.

 

Dread scales up his back in chilling successions when the door swings open and blue eyes, lids drooping with the weight of sleep, blink back at him. But the warm, drowsy haze quickly shifts to a frosty glare.

 

“What do you want?"

 

Before answering, Arthur notes that Alfred (for once) has not worn something ostentatious and gaudy to bed. When they were together, even fighting to the _bloody death_ could not change Alfred’s mind — if anything, it made him even more determined to wear a pair of brightly-coloured boxers and a neon tank to match. In his faded jeans and black wifebeater with the mid-morning sun behind him, casting him aglow in eerily warm light, Alfred doesn’t make a pleasant sight, no — not when it makes Arthur’s heart clench painfully, and make him feel inferior despite the effort put into his outfit.

 

“I sent a text yesterday. I did give you prior warning."

 

“That’s out of the question because I don’t remember giving you a _reply_ —"

 

“— please, when have you _ever_ —"

 

“— so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t kick my ass awake at fuck o’clock in the morning —"

 

“ _It’s half past ten!”_  


 

“Just because it’s late for old men like _you_ it doesn’t mean I have to suffer!"

 

“Really? You’re suffering? Because it seems like solitariness has made you jolly ecstatic to me!"

 

This is exactly what Arthur has been dreading; like lit match meeting a bomb's wick in effect, an encounter is destined to result in an explosion. Arthur quells the flames in his eyes and exhales noisily — he isn’t here to pick a fight, after all. 

 

“Just let me in,” Arthur snaps, “I am only here for my belongings."

 

“Can’t you come back tomorrow? I’m honestly not ready for any visitors right now.” Alfred says brusquely, but he’s unable to hide the tired sag of his shoulders.

 

“For god’s sake, I won’t take half an hour. If you can’t stand being in the same space as me so much you’re welcome to retire to our— your bedroom."

 

Small quirks like these are the ones that refuse to pack up and leave. They’re also the ones that hit him the hardest. We, us, our, together — and now Arthur has to get used the shape of you, your, mine and I in his mouth. They feel foreign and painful, like the constant clash of teeth onto tongue. But he presses his lips in a tight line and doesn’t allow the hurt to show, because if there’s one thing in common between them, it’s the importance they place on pride. So important that often they place it before their own happiness —  and it’s because of this pride that they’re glaring at each other across the threshold, both tired but also unwilling to be seen as the first to put the sword down. 

 

“Fine,” he lets out a shuddering breath. The concept of giving up is almost as foreign to Alfred as outer space is to a little child, but for the first time Arthur thinks that he is doing exactly that — giving up. “But be quick,” he adds as a last line of defence.

 

“No need to tell me, I’m sure we both have the same idea,” and just like that, he kicks Alfred’s pride back to the ground as he shoves past him to enter their once shared living space. Arthur doesn’t look back to check what Alfred is doing, simply strides to their — _his_ — room where most of his belongings are most likely gathering dust.

 

_It was fate, Arthur knew right off the bat. How else could he explain the series of events that followed their very first collaboration? After all, Alfred attempted to nullify their deal only two days into it. Apparently being a perfectionist wedding planner was not enough; he had to be a self-entitled, stuck-up food critic to boot. And even though Arthur’s catering service served a relatively niche market, it was well-known in the foodie realm with a sparkling reputation, and having some prick four years his junior kick up a tantrum over what he deemed ‘bland food’ was truly not how Arthur pictured the prestigious wedding assignment to be all about._

_“We need to talk,” was the first serious exchange they had apart from pleasantries and shouting matches, with no inbetweens._

_“I’ve said everything I needed to say,” Alfred replied, head downcast and fingers massaging his temples, but his eyes were flitting elsewhere. “And I think you have somewhere to be. The kitchen, specifically, packing your stuff and —"_

  
_“I will_ not _have you make such rash decisions for our clients!"_  


  
_“They’re_ my _clients, thank you —"_  


_“I control half of this wedding’s procedures, so they are my clients just as much as they are yours."_

_“My clients expect a stellar wedding, without any hitches, the perfect setting and atmosphere and weather and  — and a marriage that they will remember for the rest of their lives!"_

_“And you think I believe any different?"_

_When Alfred met his eyes, Arthur almost swallowed his own tongue because for the very first time, Alfred looked so helpless, so open and vulnerable, so young. He tried to smile, though it still resembled a grimace._

_“I just want this to be perfect,” he whispered, so sincerely that Arthur doesn’t think twice before taking two big strides across the room to envelop him in his arms and promise him that it will be nothing but._

If only Alfred pays half as much attention to his quarters as his weddings, then perhaps he would have picked up another partner by now. Any potential suitors have probably been scared away by the appalling disarray of dirty clothes, misplaced game CDs, empty packets of crisps and crushed soda cans littering the hallway. Ugly blotches of dark grey mar the once cream-coloured carpet in front of Alfred’s room, discoloured and dull like someone tried to scrub it away without any success.

 

  
_They only had eyes for each other during the wedding’s party, nestled snugly between 'cut the (absolutely stunning, 5-tier, gold-tinted) cake' time and the bouquet toss. As they gazed out on the veranda overlooking the gorgeous garden lit up by yellow-tinted night lights while occasionally marveling at the bright full moon, it was difficult to contain the pride they felt; in their joined success and the beauty they were able to create with their two bare hands._ _Their clients' night is unraveling as smoothly as possible, and they allowed themselves to be a little selfish as they clinked champagne glasses, exchanged words of congratulations that dripped with insinuations, touched, kissed, stole hearts._  


 

_Feigning the need to manage unprecedented business while showcasing authentic urgency, the pair left the bride and groom to their personal assistant for the rest of the night. They were waved off with knowing glints in eyes and wolf-whistling courtesy of their friends, but their own hands and minds were preoccupied with much more pressing business._

_Alfred kissed gently, but his hands clutched at Arthur’s like he was excited and terrified at the same time — and Arthur reveled in it, liked how Alfred, for once, lost his composure in Arthur’s teasing. Odd, how they were so very sober despite all the conveniently placed alcoholic drinks in the venue that they could commit every ragged breath and every cry to memory, but so drunk on each other that other thoughts did not make an appearance, and all they could do was proclaim their love, perform under the spell of lust. In hindsight, they probably should have been more concerned about the state of their 4-figure suits being tossed carelessly around the room, and even more concerned about making love on a rather dusty carpet. But they were far too impatient to feel skin on skin, too far deep in the spiraling void of lust they voluntarily threw themselves in to care._

Arthur is cursed to concede to his habits anyway as he picked up the sad little things on the floor, tossing them into the trash can or laundry basket as he traverses the space, pushing the door to Alfred’s room closed behind him. His eyes are glued to the floor under the pretense of solving some cryptic message, when in reality Arthur is simply afraid of seeing Alfred’s newly-acquired independence shoved in his face. Things that scream bachelorhood; maybe some tapes and posters of women even though Alfred doesn’t swing that way, compromising evidence of failed one-night stands, or multiple nights spent in pleasure.

 

What he doesn’t expect is for the room to be an exact replica of their last night together.

 

Under the glare of Alfred’s night-lamp is Arthur’s pillow, wrapped in his favourite Victorian-patterned pillowcase and damp on one side when Arthur tries to salvage it. His collection of classics are lined up neatly against the windowsill in a state of cleanliness far better than even the ones at home, like someone has painstakingly dusted off each cover and each page every day. Posters of his favourite rock bands line the wall to the left of the bed, the string of polaroid photos hanging off underneath, so suffused with happiness that Arthur is infected by it even from a distance as a small worms its way onto his face. With each turn of his head, Arthur spots more of his belongings scattered in the room. A small tower of his CDs stacked on Alfred’s big, fancy worktable, his name-labeled pens, a bottle of expensive perfume — a gift from Alfred himself — his spare pair of reading glasses. Mandatory morning post-its Arthur used to write when he'd leave earlier to work; why Alfred keeps them, all crumpled and now illegible, is beyond Arthur. Toothbrush and shaving cream in the en-suite bathroom. An empty bottle of the liquid soap they used for questionable purposes one incredible night. Slippers. Most of the contents of Alfred’s personal closet has made themselves home on the floor, but Arthur’s clothes are folded abnormally neatly in the wardrobe, ironed and scented like they have just been freshly laundered.

 

The sting he feels is similar to stripping away band-aid on a healing wound, only this lasts much, much longer, and with a shaky hand Arthur covers his mouth to make prisoner of a sob in his throat.

 

_Almost as quickly as their romance had ignited, the reputation of the pair exploded across the industry. The unstoppable couple were so desired by every potential bride and groom that rumours and superstitious speculations began to circulate. Rumour had it that every marriage and union under their name were known to be long-lasting, and were blessed with riches, kids, limitless love. They never tried to disprove such rumours, partly because of the monetary advantages of such hype — but mostly because they believed themselves that their love were truly that miraculous. It was ridiculous, but they were in love, and love empowered their victims tenfold until every impossibility became child’s play._

_But there was a catch — there always was. Everything seemed like child’s play, as long as you held onto each other._

Alfred’s warning of ‘be quick’ be damned, all Arthur could manage is to sink to the floor and be consumed by what they used to be. It takes him a long, long time to remember why he even bothers to subject himself to such torture in the first place, and begins the journey of peeling away pieces of himself from the remnants of the life they shared.

 

_And often, when intense, uncontrollable passion clouds their vision and they try to run together quicklyunder the guise of love, that the tethers snap. And they start to run away from each other, instead._

_-_

Alfred’s back is bowed over the coffee table, most likely ignoring the discomfort in his lower back in favour of cradling the steaming cup of coffee like a lifeline. Busying himself by moving all his belongings, Arthur is able to conceal the redness around the rim of his eyes, albeit still occasionally letting slip a sniffle or two. 

 

When his car is finally loaded and all there is left to do is to escape, Arthur turns around.

 

“Thanks."

 

There is always a catch, and Alfred’s guarded face shows it — but Arthur is not casting another string of attachments, or any lines of false hopes. And he tries to show this with a small smile, enough to convince Alfred. 

 

“No problem."

 

“For keeping all my belongings as well. In such a — well. Acceptable condition."

 

“Sure."

 

“I really… I appreciate it. You didn’t have to, you know."

 

“Mmhm."

 

A pause, and Arthur makes to turn away. 

 

“I'll understand if you don’t want to, but…”

 

There’s always a catch, but Arthur is here hoping that for once, this time, there isn’t one.

 

“Do you want to grab coffee, or tea, sometime?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
